


Mortal After All

by witchkings



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Drugs, Hurt, basically everything is pain, minor OCs - Freeform, more pain, post-dagorlad, weird elvish painkillers, yes I took some liberty with the battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 04:30:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: "It couldn‘t be called recovery. Thranduil didn‘t know how long he lay in that very spot, passing as if through a thick mist from unconsciousness to waking and back again in an endless circle. One morning he would wake up to one of Elrond‘s minions leaning over him and chanting, next thing he knew a week had passed and he was alone, screaming until his mouth was a desert and his lungs gave in, for someone to end his misery."After the war against Sauron, Thranduil is left with a crown he doesn't want, a body that is permantently mangled and no one left to comfort him. When Elrond's medicine is the only thing that can grant him relief, Thranduil turns down a dangerous path that might cost him what little joy is left in his life.





	Mortal After All

**Author's Note:**

> Suppose a friend told me a about a headcanon she had and I wanted to write a little ficlet about it. Suppose it turned into a 15k mess of self-indulgent Greenwood headcanons and plotless misery. Have fun!
> 
> Title based on the song by Architects.
> 
> Don't read if you're triggered by: drinking, use of drugs, suicidal thoughts, self-harm

I.

For seven days and seven nights after the Battle of Dagorlad, newly crowned King Thranduil saw only flame and misery. Blinded in one eye by a dragon’s fury, the other swollen shut and blood crusted, he had no choice. Sleep evaded him and physical pain had become a constant companion, nearly unbearable, but there to ground him in a reality that seemed otherwise far away. 

He relived the battle that had raged endlessly across the field, over and again. The days he spent in short fits of semi-consciousness trying to suppress the memories. When at night he couldn’t rest, he watched his father crumple, crushed under the weight of a Balrog’s warhammer, his bones shattered into a million pieces. He was dead ere Thranduil could call his name. Oropher, a lord, a king, an age of prospering. Oropher, his beloved adar. Oropher, nothing more than one in a million on their way to Mandos’ halls.  
Thranduil stood rooted to the spot, surrounded by bodies fair and foul, and unable to lift a finger. His sword slipped from his limp hand, struck the ground with a dull thud and lay there still. 

Oropher’s last words rung through his mind as ice grew over Thranduil’s heart and enclosed it whole. 

“Leave me alone, fool. Go and protect our rear.” Their formation fell with their king and the Greenwood soldiers scattered, fighting at random, fighting only to avenge.  


With tears streaming down his cheeks Thranduil stood in the midst of the mayhem and stared at his father’s body and all will to fight left him. Thranduil didn’t notice the shadow looming over him from behind, didn’t notice the attack until he came to, face squished against a dead orc as he had been thrown to the ground by Oropher’s first officer, half his body on fire. The first scream burst from his lips, half-screech half-sob. He wailed himself hoarse well into the next morning. 

“Put it out,” he yelled as often as his voice would comply, delirious with pain. “Please someone make it stop.” The fire had long died, so had the dragon. But Thranduil was still aflame and the road home was a long one. 

So, the battle raged on within him. From the outside his burned flesh tore and bit at him, a hot hiss that travelled up his side, cradled his face and licked down his back. On the inside he was frozen solid, deader yet than any who had let their lives in that last fight. Fire and ice didn’t cancel each other out though. He would have welcomed feeling nothing. Would have traded anything for the pain to stop. 

Seven days and seven nights was the journey from Dagorlad to Lothlorien, a procession of mourning where it should have been celebration.  
From what Thranduil understood through hushed voices surrounding him, it had all been in vain. The battle was won, but the blood of men had proven weak.  
Not that he cared much. In truth, had he been able to grasp a sword at any moment during those seven days, had he been able to walk and see, he would have ended his life right there. And all throughout it, he burned on. 

As the procession left behind the last outskirts of the battle fields which stretched deep into Rohan and with it the bitter tang of smoldering ashes, Thranduil finally lost consciousness. 

II.

When at last he opened his unscathed eye, Thranduil found himself under a thick firmament of blue-tinged leaves. Soft voices drifted to him, laments of mourning that seeped into his consciousness. If it weren‘t for them, Thranduil could have convinced himself that the last days had been a bad dream. He awoke feeling strangely elevated, as if all his worries had been buried ten feet under. The songs told of great deeds and heroic deaths none of which Thranduil could remember. Maybe it had been a nightmare after all and he was merely laying in some forgotten part of the Greenwood. This wasn‘t Lorien, this was home and any moment now Oropher would appear between brushes, half a smile playing on his face. He would tut as he helped Thranduil up and say: „My my, what is this?“ His voice would bend around a suppressed laugh. „A lost prince.“ And they would walk to the palace together and Thranduil would do everything to beckon that laugh out of his father.  
Thranduil lay in the soft grass and listened to the strange music which could have very well been the wind rustling the leaves in a way that made it sound like voices. And he waited for his adar to take him home. 

III.

The next time, Thranduil awoke screaming on top of his lungs. Several pairs of hands held him down as he struggled, albeit weakly. The nightmare clung to the edges of his vision, full of monsters and blood and Thranduil took several gulping breaths before he released his aching muscles. He recognized Elrond who hovered over him a definite crease of worry between his brows. 

“Thranduil, can you hear me?” 

Thranduil opened his mouth to reply but whatever he wanted to say was drowned in another scream as the echo of flame flared up all along his body, eating him alive. Something cold and soothing pressed against his flesh and too many people were all over him at once. He was swathed in a damp cloth which dulled the burning at best. Still they kept touching him. 

“Thranduil, don’t struggle. We’re here to help,” Elrond said, carefully placing a hand on the good side of Thranduil’s face.  
“Please,” he whimpered. “Make them stop.” 

Elrond lifted his hand and the other elves scurried off. His mouth was set in a firm line and sweat gleamed on his forehead. Where once his hair had been carefully braided to the style of the Fëanorians, it was now pulled back in a messy tangle. Thranduil registered all of this, he even saw and smelled the blood that had soaked through and dried on the other elf‘s shirt, but what all of it meant never broke through his mind. He had but one thought. 

„Where is my father?” Talking pained him further and the words slurred together as stiff, half-burned lips tried to form them. Still, wanting to know was more important than anything else. Elrond‘s frown deepened. 

“You would have seen him...” 

“But who picked him up? Who took care of him?” 

“You should drink this.“ A sigh and then his vision went white. Agony blazed through Thranduil’s backside as Elrond gently cradled his head in his hands and lifted it up. He held a stone bowl to Thranduil’s lips from which came an earthy smell. 

“What is that? Where is Oropher?“ 

“Just something to ease the pain.” 

Reluctantly, he opened his mouth. The liquid was thick and slimy, bits of it dribbled off Thranduil’s chin as the part of his mouth that had wasted away couldn’t hold it. The taste was nothing to him, a faint tang of athelas and gooseberries, that was lost as soon as he had forced it down his throat. 

“What now?” He croaked, saliva running down his face. 

“Now you wait.“ Elrond took up a wet cloth and wiped the mess away. His eyes were flicking all over Thranduil‘s form, darkening. 

„If I‘m a lost cause,“ Thranduil said. „I‘d rather you end my life now.“ 

„You can recover. It‘ll be a long and arduous process. But I‘ve known you to be strong.“ 

„Then you haven’t known me at all,“ Thranduil muttered and closed his eye. He couldn’t stand the look of pity in Elrond‘s eyes. Or the way he saw a king, the future of a whole people, where there lay only a child, hurt and way out of his depth. 

„You‘re wounds are still fresh, old friend. They may run deep, but they are not without end. Trust me.“ 

A giggle bubbled out of Thranduil then. Another followed suit. Old friend. Laughing ached and strained him, but once he got going he couldn‘t stop. It was all a bizarre dream still. He wound himself on Elrond‘s lap, spitting and coughing. The leaves overhead spun faster and faster and whispered cruel jokes to him. When at last his laughter faded, so did his pain. 

„I hate your ugly-ass face you know that?“ 

Elrond merely raised an eyebrow at him, still pressing cold rags to Thranduil‘s cheek. 

„Oh Elbereth did I just say that?“ 

„Yes,“ Elrond replied. „I see the medicine is taking effect.“ 

„I don‘t give an orc‘s ass on your medicine, you lousy half-bred little-"

„That‘s quite enough, thank you.“ Elrond lifted Thranduil‘s head once more and the world whirled. Soon, he was a shadow looming over him. Thranduil tried to lift his hand, reach up to the gleaming sword, dangling unsheathed at Elrond‘s side, but his muscles wouldn’t budge. Instead, his stomach lurched and contracted. 

„I feel strange.“ More spittle flew. 

„Not to worry,“ Elrond said and turned. „You‘ll be out before I‘m out of sight. Oh and Thranduil? He is gone. You better come to terms with it sooner rather than later. There‘s a crown awaiting your swift recovery.“ Without looking back, Elrond walked away. 

„What?“ Thranduil said or thought he‘d said it and that confused him a lot. Had they been talking about wine? He certainly felt drunk. His stomach lurched again, and he waited for it to spill its contents as it was wont to do after a night of heavy drinking. As he waited, the world slipped away from him and before he knew it, he was trapped in darkness once more. 

IV.

It couldn‘t be called recovery. Thranduil didn‘t know how long he lay in that very spot, passing as if through a thick mist from unconsciousness to waking and back again in an endless circle. One morning he would wake up to one of Elrond‘s minions leaning over him and chanting, next thing he knew a week had passed and he was alone, screaming until his mouth was a desert and his lungs gave in, for someone to end his misery. Thranduil‘s sleep was haunted by the same nightmares of Oropher and the dragons and then older ones. He watched Doriath burn, a memory he‘d thought to be buried, watched it torn apart by a war fought on the grounds of envy and hatred. He watched his mother cut in half by a dwarven axe, felt the blood encompass him in a wet hug. When Thranduil awoke he was wrapped in cold cloth once more and he could barely form a word. Silent tears ran down his face and he felt absolutely nothing.  
So, time passed and there was little improvement. The laments ceased, Elrond returned to his state of noble high-fashion and Thranduil had barely been able to prop himself up on his elbows. 

„My people,“ he said when he was able to speak once more.

„They are still here,“ Elrond said, massaging a sort of creamy paste into Thranduil‘s wasted flesh. It was cool and sizzling and smelt of fresh mint. „Some of them have fared as badly as you and are yet recovering. The rest refuses to leave their king behind.“ 

„Their king is dead.“ 

„Long live the king,“ Elrond muttered and drew away, his face hidden in the gloomy shadow of the trees. Thranduil flexed his toes and flinched at the shock of pain that travelled up his leg. 

„That stuff... it wore off again.“ 

„As it should have.“ Next, the other elf held a jug of fresh water to Thranduil‘s lips. Thranduil closed his eyes and drank, relished how the cool liquid slipped down his throat and spread from there on, froze as another layer on his insides. When the water stopped flowing, the pain returned.

„I need more medicine, Elrond.“ 

„You‘ve had quite more than I‘d recommend to anyone. Given the circumstances that was justified, but your wounds are progressing in a way that should render it unnecessary.“ 

„I don‘t feel any better.“ 

„We‘re having a conversation and you‘ve been conscious for at least two hours. I‘m hopeful you should be able to stand up within the week.“  
„Please,“ Thranduil sobbed. He writhed on the spot unable to do more and wished he could shed his ruined skin. He hadn‘t yet seen the devastation for himself and he had no desire to. „Just once more.“ His hand moved with unprecedented speed, gathering strength from depths unknown as he clutched Elrond‘s sleeve. 

„No.“ The final verdict fell like a slap to Thranduil‘s sizzling cheek and his grip tightened to the point of cramping. The mossy ground beneath him suddenly felt hot, like little pinpricks of fire there only to torment him further. 

„I beg you.“ 

„The fact that you do tells me I‘ve overestimated your strength. You realize this is exactly why.“ It wasn‘t a question so much as a threat and that was when Thranduil finally gave up. For the moment. 

„Something else then?“ 

„I‘ll send Lindir over later with something to calm you, but I‘ll suspect you‘ll be asleep again ere I leave.“ 

Elrond’s words proved true, but Thranduil didn’t stay out for long. Slivers of sunlight still slipped through the thicket as he awoke to find Lindir kneeling by his side, the perfect little caricature of his master. 

Lindir embodied everything terrible about Elrond, things that only ever came through when the Half-Elven lost his composure. Where Elrond dressed according to the tales of Valinor some Noldorin fools had put into his head, Lindir clad himself in the same garb with thrice the pathos in an aim to outshine Eärendil himself. Where Elrond acted lawful to his best abilities, Lindir had no tolerance for improvisation in the slightest. Where Elrond was a hesitant fighter, sparing those who begged for mercy enough, Lindir would only ever draw a sword upon a creature if he had witnessed its crime firsthand. Listing Lindir’s flaws was an activity Thranduil rarely tired of, but in his less than ideal state he let it rest. In an ill stroke of fate, Lindir never defied his master. So, when he held another stone bowl to Thranduil’s lips that most definitely didn’t contain the concoction he was about ready to kill for, there was little hope in his weary thoughts. His chances weren’t zero though. In younger days, before Elrond had even been born, Thranduil had been able to convince Lindir of the odd... detour. This was why the other elf couldn’t even look Thranduil in the eye when he lay wasted and broken at his knees, whimpering for help.  
A distant voice in Thranduil’s head mourned for the friend he had lost when Mr. High-and-Mighty had entered the world of Elven nobility and politics. Lindir had been instantly smitten with Elrond and Thranduil had watched him descent into a persona that never quite fit him. Thranduil quelled the voice with a bitter inner smile. He’d never been that good of a lay at any rate. 

Thranduil took a big gulp of the liquid Lindir gently pushed against his mouth and tasted citrus and camomile. He knew the taste well, it was Legolas’ go-to drink when he was unable to calm down at night. Careful to hit Lindir’s crimson robes and half of his own linens, Thranduil took another sip and spat the stuff out with an overdrawn cough that came all too easily. 

“What is this?” Thranduil glared at Lindir, fixing him with his very own kind of fire. Finally, Lindir glanced down at him, brown eyes blown wide. “Your master promised me something to quell my pains, not some filthy excuse for a tea.” The words burst from his lips, hasty, pushing out before he could fumble again and mess them up. For once, he could speak a coherent sentence without drooling and slurring the words together. There was something to be said for Elrond an his pastes and herbs.

“Lord Elrond keeps careful tabs on all his patients, mylord. From his ledgers I gather you have had enough painkilling medicine. He ordered me to ease your anxiety.” 

“If I was anxious,” he pressed through gritted teeth. “I wouldn’t ask for something stronger. I’m half-dead, Lindir, I’m still dying. Take one good look at me and tell me again that I need the same thing you give to upset elflings when they can’t sleep.” 

“Mylord-“ 

“You can shove your cordiality right where the light may never touch it. For the sake of our friendship, long past though it may be, I beg you to help me. Have some mercy and forget for one day your prejudices.” 

“This is not about a grudge you ascribe to me-“ 

“Please. And if asking doesn’t change your heart then I’ll find another way to convince you. Maybe your master might be interested in a little tale of your youth. My memory is infallible you see, even in the face of tragedy.” Thranduil’s voice broke on the last syllable and he licked his lips. It seemed his fortune had run out.

“Thranduil.” There was a lot contained in that one word and Thranduil could read about five different emotions in the hollows of Lindir’s voice. There were pain and pity and pride. There was resignation. And then there was the faintest sliver of amused exasperation, an echo of the elf Thranduil used to know. It was how he knew he’d won. 

“I thank you. From the bottom of my heart.” Hollowed out though it may be. 

“I’ll be back by sunset,” Lindir said and got up, his hair swaying with the movement, golden-etched hems swirling up invisible leaves. 

“Oh, and Lindir, dearest?” Thranduil said, and he closed his eye. He was getting tired again, the muscles of his jaw moving sluggishly to form words that were dulled around the edges. “Keep this off the ledgers, will you?” Lindir scoffed , but in the end he never breathed a word of it to anyone. 

V.

Through a steady chain of blackmail and well-placed compliments, Thranduil managed to keep Lindir coming back, bringing him more and more of the medicine. Just enough that he felt like he could fly among Ulmo’s clouds and dance with Manwë’s winds, but not so much that Elrond would notice. His visits grew more infrequent but now that Thranduil managed a regular sleeping cycle he was constantly surrounded by Lorien and Imladris Elves who helped him sit up, helped him eat, translated his mostly slurred words and finally held him up as he stood, for the first time since his father’s death, on his own to feet. At first, he could only put weight on his unscathed leg, the other hanging limply about, any strain at all setting it on fire again. Once, he passed out. Once, broke down on the spot, sobbing into the heavy silence that had fallen around him for endless hours. And once, he asked if not one of his own could be there to help him get back on his feet, but they told him with hushed voices and downcast faces that any, who would have had the capacity to mend and heal, had perished in the battle. Twenty of the Greenwood’s most skilled healers and their entourage, slain by the dark forces. Whereas Thranduil had vanquished thoughts of his own recovery, he had still coveted a sliver of hope when it came to his people’s. But if there were none left, if their king was a mere shadow and the darkness remained, he was bound to forfeit that as well. 

Innumerable days passed and while Thranduil’s physical pain was taken from him, while he learned to walk again, his heart stayed cold and broken. No one was there to offer words of comfort and his people stayed away from him or were kept, he knew not which. Thranduil kept mostly to himself until the day came that Galadriel’s patience and hospitality had run so thin that she sent a young elf by the name of Haldir to tell him that all preparations had been made and the Greenwood procession was ready to travel back home. All they needed was their king. 

Won‘t even show her face, the cursed witch. Thranduil thought and sent Haldir away with a diplomatic thank you and a kind request for some clothes as he was still clad in the simple linens to account for his roughened skin. He wouldn’t travel this country in a cripple‘s garb no matter where else he might fail in ruling. He‘d fail with what little dignity remained. 

The next dawn marked his last one in Lothlorien and he reached the outskirts of the woods with Lindir‘s aid, a warm arm about his waist that made him think back to the battle and the elf that had tackled him out of the dragon‘s way. Elrond had said his goodbyes the night before and Galadriel had sent no other word after Haldir had left. This was merely another marker of a long-strained relationship and even though Oropher and Celeborn were distantly related, Thranduil knew exactly where he stood in the appraisals of the Noldorin monarchy and their only remaining representative on Middle-Earth. By his reckoning, no higher than a common fool. 

His people waited at the foot of a small hill that was topped by the last few trees marking the borders of Lothlorien. As always when he left the woods, a strange sort of melancholy gripped Thranduil and he inhaled sharply. Lindir mistook this for pain and tightened his grip, but as Thranduil saw his subjects in neat order, horses at the ready and waiting for him, he shook the other elf off.

They bowed before him. He was their king. How pitiful. There was no crown on his head yet nor would he ever let them put the one his father had worn on it. It was too heavy a burden to bear. He wouldn’t be half the king Oropher had been and he wasn’t convinced he had it in him to even try. 

Looking over the crowd of Silvar and Sindar, Thranduil‘s heart sunk. Less than a fourth of their original force had survived and those that remained looked defeated. He was faced with burn marks, much like his own but lesser in size, broken arms, claw marks, sword wounds and the list went on. These were the sorry remains of the army his father had built and if Thranduil hadn’t been filled to the brim with his own personal sadness, he would have mourned for them too. His eyes swept over them once more. Something felt wrong about them, a lot of people were missing yes, but - 

And then, through a haze, a memory broke through. Painkillers or trauma or both together had made him forget that there were more people to lose than his father. There were more people he had lost. 

„Where is she?“ he hissed, the rash movement twisting his torn face. Thranduil winced. He could barely stand, had to lean on Lindir once more whose mouth was a thin line between red cheeks. Everything was agony and it was about to get worse. „Where is my wife?“ 

„Mylord,“ muttered Bór, a lieutenant in Thranduil‘s battalion. „We don‘t know of her fate.“ 

„I do,“ Gilraen chimed in. He had been her second in command, leading the left flank of their assault. 

„Tell me.“ Spittle flew as Thranduil lost control over his lips. „TELL ME.“ 

„Lady Amathien took on one of the fellbeasts by herself, mylord. I pleaded her to wait, figure out some other way, but she wouldn’t listen. She was valiant, mylord. She fought the beast even as it soared into the sky and slew it. We couldn‘t cushion her fall.“ He bowed his head between hunched shoulders. 

„So where is she now?“ Thranduil‘s hand trembled and he could feel his knees give in. Still, his good eyes scanned the faces before him, some tear-stained, some hard. Most not daring to look him in the eye. She wasn‘t among them. „You will answer me.“ 

There came a cowardly silence in reply. 

„Where is my wife?“ Thranduil sank to his knees. „Where is she? I want to see her.“ 

„My king, please,“ Bór moaned. „Please don‘t ask this of us.“ 

„I want to see her.“ So what if these people had lost their king? He had lost everything and as far as he could tell, there were no replacements for his family. 

„She was dead on impact,“ Gilraen muttered. 

Thranduil buried his face in his hands. The tears scraped against his wasted skin and pooled in the corners of his mouth. He didn‘t get up for a long time after that. 

VI.

The journey home was solemn and painful. In his haze, Thranduil swallowed what medicine Elrond had allowed him all at once or else he didn’t dare to mount his horse. At that moment, he did not think ahead. It was supposed to last him the whole journey home and he came to regret that decision hours later. Yes, he was calmed and so were his thoughts for a bit, but he soon fought a blinding headache and his craving for stronger potions only intensified. 

Thranduil rode alone at the head of the column, even his personal guard, appointed in haste and without reason, stayed two horses‘ widths behind him and the vanguard was way ahead, scouting out the area for stray orcs. Sometimes they passed fresh bodies on the wayside which was the only sign that they were alive and well. After his outburst, no one dared to approach Thranduil except on most official and court business and even then they averted their eyes and wouldn’t give counter to his often times rash proclamations. He made them ride single-file on open field, claiming it was safer if an attack came from above. They rode all through the night and only rested for a few hours at dawn before Thranduil had them up on horseback again, a procedure he almost couldn’t manage himself. All he wanted was to get home and find it unchanged and welcoming so that it might heal what he himself could not. 

He would hear their whispers, of course, even with only one properly working ear. A youth spent searching for the subtle magics of Yavanna in undergrowths and open fields alike had made him, if anything, a keen listener. 

“He seems a ghost on horseback.” Some would murmur and more horrible things about his likeness which he had not dared to look upon when Lindir had offered him a mirror. Thranduil tried to overhear them, but fragments stuck. 

Then there were others who worried more than anything.  
“He must be in agony, riding all day. Elbereth knows, I can barely stay upright, and I only broke an arm.” So he was. But, he felt, no less agony than he would be in standing or laying down. The only sure way to end his pain was death and he was too weak even for that. 

Thranduil closed his eyes for the brief moment before vertigo would set in. Had he been whole, had he been a good king, he would fall back and listen to his people’s woes. Give encouragement and light when the world seemed still cloaked in shadow. Oropher would have been able to ignore his own pain. Thranduil could not. Even now, he felt tears pool in the corners of his eyes at the thought of his father. 

“Come back,” he whispered to the barren dusty sky. They had passed by Moria and the Gladden Fields already and the first trees of the Greenwood loomed to their side, murmuring amongst themselves. Thranduil didn’t dare take the forest road for fear of what foul creatures may reside there still, knowing nothing of their master’s demise. Or worse, they might know he wasn’t entirely defeated. 

When it started to rain, heavy fat drops that were grey and tasted of ash, they rode along the forest line, sheltered by the thick leaves and branches, older than he himself.  
The Elves behind him were silent save for Gilraen who offered Thranduil his riding cloak to keep him warm. Thranduil declined. He tried to give the other elf an appreciative smile, but by the look of wide-eyed horror that passed Gilraen’s face it must have been a grimace too terrible to behild. 

“Forgive me,” Thranduil murmured. “I thank you for your kind offer.” 

“N-no,” Gilraen stammered. “I’m the one at fault, I shouldn’t have-“ 

“No harm done.” Thranduil turned back to the muddy path ahead. He moved too quickly, and a branch nicked his cheek. Immediately, Thranduil tasted blood and his stomach lurched violently. 

“Are you well, mylord?” 

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. He felt the morning’s broth rise in his throat. Don’t throw up, he begged of his broken body. Anything but this right now.  
It was to no avail. With a weak gesture, Thranduil halted the column behind him. He half-tumbled off his horse and his legs immediately gave in. Retching and coughing, Thranduil’s stomach spilled its contents. He closed his eyes. This was it then, the lowest point of his life. He was a vomiting mess on the wet ground, mud clinging to him, for all his force to see. 

He’d lost everything he’d held dear. 

You claim to have loved them and couldn’t even protect them, a voice inside him spoke up. It wouldn’t be bound. 

And then another, smaller voice.  
Even if you had been together, they would have been the ones protecting you. You’ve always been weak, hiding behind your father’s crown and your wife’s strength. Look at you know, breaking down over a little blood. You would have been happy playing prince charming and pretty to the end of days. 

“And what’s wrong with that?” Thranduil panted, clutching hard at the ferns around him, needing something, anything to hold onto. There was no reply and so, after wiping his mouth on his soaked cloak, he climbed back onto his horse and they rode on. 

Then, one morning over a thin broth, their last day of the journey was upon them and the next night Thranduil would spent in his own bed for the first time in months, he overheard another conversation that filled him with dread. 

„I can‘t help but wonder...“ 

„What are you saying?“ 

“It’s been a horrible war and all that. Many lives have been lost and most of our people away from home. I always thought we‘d head back to the palace in cheer, you know?“ 

„Yes, me too.“ 

„I had it all pictured. Everyone who stayed behind and little Legolas would lead them, flowers in his hair like he always wears.“ 

„Oh,“ came the reply, the elf‘s voice thick with tears. „And he would want to hug everyone.“ 

Thranduil froze, his spoon midair. Legolas. Valar, no. He could have dealt with facing his people, a broken prince and a pretender. He could have dealt with being a disappointment for the rest of his life. He could not face his son like this. Legolas with flowers in his hair and silly ideas on his lips and the stupidest smile Thranduil had ever seen. At once, his heart yearned for the boy and he wanted nothing more than to hold him to his chest and for Legolas to say something so funny it must blow away all of Thranduil‘s sorrows. All the same, he could not be with his son like that, maybe not ever again. Legolas was easily scared and with his mother and grandfather gone, what comfort could a father offer who was more demon than elf? None. 

„Gilraen,“ Thranduil said and Gilraen looked up from where he‘d been discussing how they‘d go about reclaiming their grounds now that the immediate threat was gone with a few others who had been spared the worst of the battle. It seemed his people were doing just fine without his contribution. This too was Oropher‘s legacy. A kingdom that worked in its king‘s absence, but wanted for him nonetheless. 

„Sir?“ 

„I‘d ask you to ride ahead and see that no one will know of our return until after we‘ve arrived. Especially not my son. I wouldn‘t want him to be overwhelmed...“ 

„Of course. I‘ll ride immediately.“ Gilraen shot up, half a bowl of soup still clutched in his hand. 

„You should finish your meal first. No need to be hasty.“ 

„Of course, of course. Thank you, mylord.“ Gilraen nodded and returned to the conversation, but his heart seemed out of it. He kept shooting furtive glances at Thranduil whenever he wasn‘t speaking. Whether in fear or worry, Thranduil could not tell and it mattered not. The distance had sprung to life when, instead of offering comfort, thanking them for their valiant fight or even simply asking after their health, he‘d screamed at them for his wife and now there was no energy in him to deconstruct it. So, he sat in silence and listened to their conversations and contributed none of his own. 

VII.

The Greenwood procession entered their homeland realm with little fanfare and no welcome, as their king had ordered. As soon as he was off horseback, Thranduil nearly collapsed again and had one of his bowmen help him to his chambers. They passed through the corridors of the palace in hushed swiftness, the gloomy light that filtered through the ceiling guided them barely. A cold draft danced through hallways and long corridors, shaking the banners that still clung to the walls bearing Oropher’s sigil. Nothing had changed. The palace was mostly deserted, and dust had settled on every surface and crept into corners, but aside from that it was the same. Still, Thranduil felt like his home had been taken over by a new foe clad in the guise of the winter season embracing Middle-Earth. He shivered. 

“Are you alright, mylord?” the nameless elf asked as they climbed the final steps to the royal housing wing. Thranduil almost fell as his view was obscured by his riding cloak which he wore to veil half his face. It was not the time of day for anyone but the guard to be roaming around, but the risk of running across someone, especially someone close to him was too high. His neck ached under the weight, but he went on, always a little bit more, pushed himself forward and feared for the day he’d run out of lies to tell himself. 

“Have someone bring a barrel of wine up for me,” he croaked. “And make sure no one comes in here.” Thranduil shooed the elf away and stumbled through the door into the room he used to share with the most beautiful creature on Arda. At once, memories assaulted him, like a kick to the stomach. Her scent clung to the stale air, wildflowers and liquid starlight. Her chair sat next to his by the window and would remain empty ever after. The bed was made, topped with a mountain of pillows the way she liked to sleep. Her scarf hung over the mirror by their bathroom door where she had discarded it as they had gotten the notice. 

Thranduil remembered the moment as if it was playing before his very eyes. Amathien, red-cheeked and full of laughter had posed in front of the mirror. Her darks curls had bounced in the light late-summer breeze and she had tied the piece of orange cloth around her neck over and over, never quite happy with the way it hugged her. Thranduil had laughed too, had put his hands on her hips and kissed her shoulder. 

“You’ll never be satisfied,” he had murmured against her bare skin. “But you’ll always be beautiful.”

“Oh shut up.” Amathien had pushed him off and then Gilraen had burst into their room. 

“A letter from Imladris,” he had gasped, gulping air as if he was drowning. “We’re going to war.” 

The memory ended with a hasty stumble down the steps. Thranduil walked over to the mirror and took the piece of fabric into his hand. He held it close to his chest and then he made the mistake of looking up. 

A gruesome beast stared at him, wide-eyed and misty. One blue eye, one milky white, Thranduil only recognized himself on a second look. Half the muscles of his face were visible, raw and red and twisted into a mess of scars. If he looked closely enough he could see bits of his skull peeking through at his temple and where his burned scalp had peeled back. The wasteland ran down the side of his face, and covered his neck in thick scar tissue, disappearing finally into the line of his tunic. 

Thranduil sank to his knees and touched a finger to his lips where they too became dead and hackly. He’d seen his hands and bits of his legs before, but nothing could have prepared him for the image before him. It was uglier than any orc he’d killed in his long life, more revolting than any of Morgoth’s creations could hope to be. He was become a nightmare. And he desperately needed to get drunk now that Elrond’s magic was beyond his reach. 

Chest heaving with dry sobs, Thranduil dragged his heavy body over to his chair by the window and waited for the bowman to come back, bearing sweet relief on his shoulders. After he was gone again, the King of the Greenwood the Great opened the barrel and poured himself the first of countless goblets. 

VIII.

Many sun cycles passed as Thranduil sat in that very chair. Occasionally, he would get up. When his wine was empty, when he smelled so disgustingly horrible, like orc dung and death, he couldn’t stand it himself anymore. When he noticed how tired he was before it caught up to him. More often than not, he fell asleep sitting there and awoke again with a nasty kink in his neck. Always he cradled Amathien’s scarf to his chest as if that could somehow bring her back. The same two servants came to care for him and in a foolish attempt to please their king, they brought with them Oropher’s crown. Thranduil burst into tears at the sight and threw it at them, spitting curses and death threats. Still, they came back the next day. They fed him when he was willing, they tended to his wounds as well as he would let them, and they kept quiet about his condition. If Thranduil hadn’t been so caught up in staring out the window all day, he might have felt some hint of gratitude. And then came a day when the door creaked open and it wasn’t either of the two. Thranduil started at the sound of a familiar voice. 

„Mylord.“ It was a female elf, the one Amathien had selected when Legolas had been born to be his guardian, who came in, her face veiled behind flaming hair as she bowed deeply. Thranduil searched for her name but it didn‘t come to him and so he nodded in reply. There had been a time when he and this elf had been friends. When they had walked together through the woods, little Legolas between them as Amathien had been busy leading the archery practice. They had lifted him high into the air, had watched him chase bunnies through their underground dwellings and stumble over his own feet, face-first into a soft stream. Her laugh had been deep and cheerful as she had picked the soaked princeling up and had placed him in his father‘s arms. Thranduil‘s heart clenched at the memory and still her name evaded him. 

She straightened herself and her green tunic which was as always immaculate. Thranduil had never managed to stay clean when playing with Legolas, but she had an indefinite talent for it. 

„Speak,“ he said and his voice broke. 

„Legolas has been asking to see you, sir.“ 

Thranduil flexed his fingers around the arm of his chair. The muscles in his left hand wouldn‘t budge and the fabric of the glove he wore scratched against the sore flesh. He welcomed the discomfort like he once would have his father‘s hug. 

The elf shifted on her feet, but she kept her eyes fixed on Thranduil‘s. He knew the look on her face well, how she bit her lip when her opinion differed from those stationed higher than she was. How the hazel in her eyes went a shade beyond brown. He knew her almost like a little sister. If he‘d had it left in him to mourn another loss, he would have wept for their friendship. The hard reality was that he didn‘t care. 

„Speak your mind or leave,“ he said, trying to mime authority and strength, but the words slurred together and saliva dribbled down his chin. Learning to speak properly again when there was no one he wanted to talk to proved difficult. 

“You’ve been a terrible father and friend and if you didn’t look miserable already, I’d slap you across the face for it.” She cleared her throat and added: “Sir.”  
Thranduil almost wanted to smile. 

“And how do you propose I take care of my son who, I might add, gets nightmares over the most trivial things, looking like a creature from the very pits of Mordor. Legolas would scream at the sight of me.” 

“You’re only half-dead,” she replied and shrugged. 

“Do you think this is funny?” 

“Not at all. I think that there is a child who has lost his mother and his grandfather in one strike. I think that this child could use his father, mutilated or not.“ 

“I’ve lost them too, is that worth nothing?” 

“We’ve all lost people in this war. We’re ALL mourning. But you’re our king now and the only one Legolas has left so get off your sorry ass and act like a grown-up for once in your life.” 

“Believe me, if I didn’t look like a monster, I’d sit on that throne right now.” He tapped his finger to his ruined cheek and raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t believe you. You’re drowning your misery in wine. At least one thing you’ve always been good at.” 

“By the Valar, what do I have to do to get you off my chest?” 

“How about lunch tomorrow? Just us three.” 

Thranduil rolled his eyes and pointed at his face again. 

“If that really is your only problem, I have an idea.” She went on about a spell she had read about, a sort of glamour to alter one’s features. “I’ll have to read up on it, but I’m confident I can do it.” 

“Can’t you just give me the book?” 

“We both know your magic is shady at best, Thranduil.” 

“That’s king Thranduil for you.” She turned her head to hide her smile and for the briefest moment, something warm and fluttery tugged at Thranduil’s insides. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror again and it died down. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, King Thranduil.” She bowed and made to leave. 

And then it clicked. 

“Tauriel,” he called after her. “If this spell of yours doesn’t work, I’m not seeing him. I won’t cause him even more pain.” 

Tauriel bit her lip again, but this time she didn’t say anything. The door creaked shut behind her and Thranduil was left to watch the snow fall once more. He fingered the cup of wine that stood on the windowsill. A pleasant burn from the inside mingled with that of his body. A deep sigh blew up his lungs to bursting before he let it out, praying for the millionth time that Elbereth might hear him and have mercy. 

“If you love the Eldar as you claim,” he murmured and caught a snowflake on the tip of his finger, “You’ll guide me to Mandos’ halls without further torture.” As every night, she did not heed his call. 

IX.

Getting out of bed the next morning proved challenging as Thranduil‘s entire left side was pins and needles. He seriously contemplated staying in bed after several tries of rolling over and heaving himself up failed. He would have stayed in, ignoring hunger and thirst alike if it hadn’t been for Tauriel, barging in around noon, flowers braided in her hair. It was one of Legolas’ better works of art, threads of wild forget-me-not woven through the strands and thick braids that formed a crown on top of Tauriel’s head. They shimmered a light violet in the midday sun and the auburn of her hair was radiating. For a moment she was more a vision of Yavanna herself, come to cradle him to her breast and breathe the life back into him. But then her blurred edges cleared as Thranduil willed his eye to focus and it was only Tauriel, looking more like a princess than a queen, an elf with a fancy for style rather than a goddess with a love for all things a-growing. 

Thranduil felt an echo of mirth as he inspected the braids. If Silvans had been as vain as perhaps the Noldor, Legolas could have made a career of it. The feeling died ere it could reach his eyes as he corrected himself. No, Thranduil thought bitterly. He’s crown prince now. Come spring, flowers would be the least of his occupations. 

“You’re still in bed,” Tauriel noted and the deep disappointment in her voice, the way she walked up to him and tore away his blankets, blasted apart the last remnants of the illusion Thranduil desperately wanted to cling to. The Lady Kementari he could have begged for a favor, this wicked woman he could only beg for mercy.  
Thranduil pursed his lips, then bit them in a try to will some life back into them. They were dry and chapped and he tasted blood a moment later. 

“Well, lunch is about ready and Legolas is beyond annoying. I’ve come to cast the glamour, but it seems I may have to dress you first. So, get your royal arse out of bed.” 

“Can’t,” he croaked, the word but air that floated upwards. Barely, Thranduil propped himself up on his elbows and Tauriel, with more exasperation than a body should be able to hold, slung her arms around his upper body and brought him to a sitting position. He leaned against the wall and panted. The hard wood at his back had a grounding effect and he reckoned some of the old magic still clung to the palace’s walls whispering to him words intelligible. Maybe his mother could have translated its song. 

“Well?” Tauriel stood above him, her hands stemmed against her sides. Thranduil cleared his throat and finally, gloriously words tumbled out. 

“Fetch me my red overcoat.” 

It took a ridiculous amount of time for Thranduil to turn and get into a standing position. His head began to throb instantly as his room spun about him and not in a good way. Brown and green and red mingled in his vision as yesterday’s wine sent a wicked greeting down the tunnel of time. Though it seemed he was yet capable of miracles and managed to keep his balance and the contents of the stomach close to himself. 

Tauriel came back a moment later and all but shoved him into his coat, bound it with a rough golden knot over his hip. Thranduil picked up a pair of white linen gloves from his bedside table and slipped them on.

“Anything else?” she asked, sarcasm dripping from her lips. Her utter lack of sympathy amused Thranduil though it wasn’t helpful when, in reality, he needed help going to the bathroom.

“No,” he said.

“Alright, then let’s begin.” Thranduil stood as straight as his aching leg would let him as Tauriel laid her calloused fingers on his cheeks and murmured under her breath, an old dialect of Silvan that Thranduil had never bothered to learn. It sounded rough and guttural, but not without a rhythmic melody that made him close his eyes and see endless fields of stars. He could have lost himself in the low chant, Tauriel’s voice carrying him far off, but too soon she quieted and removed her hands. Save for the disorienting sense of teleportation, Thranduil had felt nothing. His muscles were still pulled taut over his cheekbone, a constant hot discomfort. 

“Did it work?” 

“See for yourself,” Tauriel said and handed over the little hand mirror that Amathien had given him for their wedding day. She had wrought the frame herself and it was set with emeralds the shape of little leaves. 

Thranduil let out a dry sob as he looked at himself. Staring back was a perfectly whole face, two blue eyes clear as day and a curtain of hair gleaming silver and blonde where before there had been only wasted scalp. It was as if looking through a hole in space, back at a younger version of himself. When he touched the tip of his ear, Thranduil expected it to feel normal under his fingers, healthy and slightly flushed as his reflection made it out to be. But his fingers only connected to a shriveled lump of flesh. It was all illusion.

“Your crown?” Tauriel asked and held up the piece in question, a heavy thing of glittering diamonds and twisted vines. Too often, Thranduil had revered it, had spent hours in meetings following the specks of light it reflected how they danced over the walls, his father’s hands, his own pale skin. Too often, had he put the thing on when he was alone and played at being king, just him and his reflection. He had done so knowing it would never come to pass. It had been his father’s crown and so it still was. Thranduil shook his head and carefully placed the mirror on top of his dresser. 

“I’m ready.” 

Tauriel offered her arm and Thranduil took it, placing his good hand in the crook of her elbow. She guided Thranduil down the halls of his domain which he hadn’t walked since the day they had arrived home. Things seemed almost ordinary as elves bustled about on their usual affairs. Those who hadn’t seen Thranduil at all since his return gave him a smile and bowed, speckled with mutterings of “welcome home, mylord” and “all hail the king”. It felt strange to be addressed as such when all Thranduil had managed in his short reign was not to cause major incidents. He didn’t reply, merely gave a courtly nod. 

Most strange of all was the lack of sorrow. Trapped in his own little cage of misery, Thranduil hadn’t noticed that the Greenwood had moved on without him, without Oropher or Amathien or any of the other fallen ones. The halls were emptier sure, but still as filled with life as before. Laughter floated among the withered leaves that the wind carried inside, songs filtered through from outside and Thranduil felt a hot wave of rage wash over him. So much for Tauriel’s worthless words. It was more than moving on. It was forgetting. It was- 

Too late he noticed that Tauriel had stopped and ran face-first into the door of the little dining room that was reserved for private affairs of the royal family. It was a round chamber, usually decked out in silver and green, Oropher’s preferred colors. Thranduil took a moment to recover from the shock and rubbed his nose. Tauriel pushed the door open and his anger was forgotten.

“Ada.” Legolas was all tangled limbs as he flung himself at Thranduil who could barely stay on his feet as he caught his son and lifted him up. Legolas’ tiny arms around his neck triggered a world of agony and friction, but he did his best not to grimace. 

“Hello,” Thranduil said and buried his nose in his son’s hair which was all over the place. He breathed in the familiar scent of grass and birch and something inside him broke lose, howling and clawing. 

“Ada, where have you been,” Legolas said and drew back, crossed his arms over his chest and blew out his cheeks. He tried to pout at Thranduil, but a little grin broke through, a little ray if sunshine in the cracks of this wasted world. “There is so much I’ve been wanting to tell you.” 

“Oh really?” Thranduil raised an eyebrow and carried his son over to the table which was decked out in purple today - Legolas’ favorite color- and laden with food. He felt sick at the sight of it and when the smell of garlic and vinegar hit his nostrils, he almost tripped. Making it to the table like this was probably the greatest accomplishment of the week, right after taking his first bath in his own. Granted, he’d had three glasses of wine beforehand so maybe it couldn’t be counted. 

Legolas wound in his arms when Thranduil tried to set him down. “Want to sit on your lap.” 

“Aren’t you a bit old for that, love?” 

“Never.” Legolas beamed. Thranduil gave in. Even before the war, he’d never been able to deny his son a request, especially not when his eyes glowed like the moon itself, a glimpse of eternal light, long lost and forgotten. Both Amathien and Tauriel had chided him for it, claiming he spoiled the boy too much, ruined him for adulthood. Oropher used to roll his eyes in mock-disapproval whenever he saw Thranduil carrying Legolas around the forest, but never commented on it. It had been the simplest and most rewarding joy of Thranduil’s life and maybe it could become that again. So, he settled down, balancing Legolas on his good leg. Tauriel sent him a questioning look from her place across the table. Without answer or excuse, Thranduil took up a spoon and his soup and ate, his stomach cramping as it was finally filled with something more nourishing than fermented fruit. 

At once, Legolas launched into tales of his adventures while the battles had raged in the south. He’d met a fox and saved save his cubs from the first frost of the season. He’d helped the cooks who’d stayed behind with collecting herbs before they too froze to death. And then, in a stroke of bad luck, he’d come across a giant spider while playing hide and seek with Tauriel’s nephew. The thing had backed the boy, who was only marginally older than Legolas, into a corner and was about to eat him whole (so Legolas said) when he dropped from a branch and buried his favorite dagger in the thing’s skull, saving the boy and the day. 

“That was very brave of you,” Thranduil said when Legolas had finished and got a proud squeal for an answer. 

For a while after, Legolas was distracted by his own food, shoveling salad and tomatoes into his mouth and they ate in a comfortable quiet that was only interrupted by the metallic scrape of cutlery and chewing noises. Only when he’d emptied three plates did the little elf speak up again. 

“Ada?” Thranduil hummed in reply, his focus on the knife in his bad hand as he tried to saw through a piece of hard cheese. He made it a quarter of the way through before he gave up and bit a piece off instead, always using the right side of his mouth. 

„Where‘s naneth?“ Legolas turned on his lap and reached to play with Thranduil‘s hair. He slapped Legolas‘ hand away lightly lest the glamour be spoiled. Then the question finally sank in. He looked at Legolas who sat wide-eyed before him and then over his head at Tauriel who had frozen, fork hovering in the air. 

„What do you mean, little leaf?“ 

„She didn‘t come back with you. Tauriel said to ask you.“ Thranduil shot her his dirtiest glare and she mouthed a half-hearted apology. He tried to swallow the cheese which turned to stone in his throat and settled heavily into the pit of his stomach. 

„You‘re right,“ he began and chased it with a gulp of scolding tea. His other hand tightened around Legolas‘ middle. „She stayed behind because her body was injured too badly to continue on.“ 

„And her fëa?“ 

„Will be travelling to the west. But you needn‘t worry, love.“ Thranduil used his thumb to smooth out the crease between Legolas‘ brows. „She has lots of company there. She‘ll be fine.“ Legolas cocked his head, pondering that for a few moments. 

„So she‘s dead?“ 

„Yes.“ 

„Is grandpa with her?“ 

Thranduil swallowed the wave of tears that threatened to break over his head and nodded. 

„Oh no,“ Legolas said and threw himself at Thranduil‘s chest. „Don‘t be sad ada, I‘m sure he‘ll come back soon.“ 

„Legolas,“ Tauriel said, a warning edge to the tremble of her voice. 

There fell again a silence among then, settling in the cracks and crevices of their conversation to fester doubt and estrangement. Thranduil knew not his son‘s mind nor could he discern any sort of upset on the boy‘s face. Legolas happily gulfed down the rest of his soup and dessert while Thranduil could barely force more than another spoonful down his throat. Tauriel ate, but with little apparent pleasure. 

The silence spread its tendrils and grew heavy until Thranduil‘s vision spun and he remembered not the sound of spoken word. His head began to lull back and know that the initial rush of seeing a beloved face had passed, the pain demanded Thranduil‘s attention once more. As Legolas nibbled on a piece of cake, Thranduil hyperfocused. The tiny sparks his wasted hand sent out periodically, sharp pricks of heat that slowly maddened him. The constant ache of his blistered backside, scraping against fabric, against wood, against the carefully woven threads of Thranduil‘s entire existence. 

And then there was another thing he‘d been able to avoid acknowledging unless he searched for things to feel miserable about. Having lost half of his vision, he‘d never shoot a bow in his life again. It was a skill Amathien had taught him and he had perfected it. He had no tolerance for lesser performance and so it was but another point on a long list of things he could mourn. His hair was among those too. His mind was about to compile a long list of hairstyles rendered impossible to him while also bemoaning the sharp pressure of Legolas‘ hand on his thigh when Tauriel‘s voice broke through his stupor. He mentally reprimanded himself for so drifting off. 

„Come on, imp, time for your bath,“ she said and without giving Thranduil another look, she darted out of the room. 

„Fiiine.“ Legolas held out his cheek and Thranduil bent forward and placed a featherlight kiss there. „That felt strange.“ Thranduil gave him a wobbly smile. 

„Go on then, Tauriel won‘t be waiting for you.“ he shooed Legolas away and was left alone with a table full of leftovers he didn‘t want and a rock in his stomach. He wanted Legolas to stay and to hold him until the world was remade and everything was fine again. He owed it only to a lengthy period of sobriety – half a day had passed and the cramps were getting worse - that he recognized that this was no burden any child could bear. Not even the happiest. 

X.

There came a point when the taste of wine sickened Thranduil. Besides its effects were acceptable at best. He craved something stronger and more suited to his needs. Wine merely dulled his senses and gave him horrible headaches afterwards. The nights when he woke up and had to lean out of bed and retch into a wooden bowl became more frequent as days went by. The taste of his own vomit became almost as familiar as the taste of his favorite red. He would have done something about that if he hadn’t been too busy lamenting his old life and dwelling on memories that only pulled him further into desperation. And when the despair gripped him, pulsing dark and fast through his veins and hollowing his body out, there was only the wine to stop his trembling. And so, he would awake again, a foul taste in his mouth and thinking how terrible it was to be him. It was a vicious cycle and Thranduil saw only one way out. Something of the likes of Elrond‘s medicine was in order and because Thranduil knew it would avail to nothing to ask the half-elf, he tasked Erellont, one of his own healers with the creation of such a tincture. 

Erellont was a young elf, younger than even Tauriel who had been born some eight-hundred years ago, and he was of lesser skill. Technically, he was still in training, but the barren truth was that he was the only healer of remarkable knowledge they had left. 

“I know very little of strong medicines, mylord,” he had protested, his green eyes gleaming in the sunlight as Thranduil had ordered him to sit in Amthien’s chair. “The sort of injuries you sustained are beyond my capacities.” 

“I do not ask for treatments of my injuries, you insolent fool, I ask for a simple, strong painkiller.” It had been a necessary evil to show Elleront his injuries, but Thranduil had regretted it immediately as his gaze kept darting over Thranduil’s face and the side of his exposed neck, down to his fingers and back up again. 

“I understand, but sir, the kind of effects you describe are beyond that of a simple painkiller. I could offer you a mixture of herbs used with steam to soften-“

“No,” Thranduil had said simply. “You deliver what I ask of you or face the consequences. Now leave me.” 

A week had passed since then, another week spent in the same rhythms, wine to help him sleep, filth and misery to wake up to, a meal with his son through which he barely got without the next glass and then wine again to quell his thoughts. What a terrible father he was, what a horrible king, husband, son, warrior and so on. Thranduil harbored the illusion that had he just fought hard enough he might have saved them all. It was natural and hard to kill off. A week and he could take no more. So, one evening, deep into his third goblet but not yet at a point where he lost control of his motor skills (again), Thranduil got out of his chair and slipped into a dark blue robe with a wide hood that he drew over his head. His vision was cast in shadow, but so was his face and he half-walked, half-swayed down, down and always down until at last he reached Elleront’s workshop.  
A low bubbling sound squirmed out from under the door and Thranduil threw it open without knocking. He’d never been in here before and had to squint to take it all in for the light flickered. There was a bookshelf on the far wall of the room, filled to the brim with notebooks and handwritten tomes. A thick mist clung to the air and Thranduil recoiled as the heat of the fire tugged at his skin. Elleront stood bent in the middle of the room next to a big wooden table, a bowl clutched in his hand. He frowned over a piece of parchment and looked up as Thranduil entered, not quite realizing who had come to visit him at a time where everyone had already retired. 

“How can I help you?” he murmured before turning back to his page.

“Is it done?” Thranduil walked over and tore the parchment out of Elleront’s hand, letting it flutter to the ground. “Have you a solution for me?”

“Apologies, mylord I didn’t realize it was you. I’m afraid I’ve been unsuccessful. Everything I have tried has either turned out impotent or not to mylord’s wishes. Forgive me.” 

“So, try again.” 

„My king, I am truly sorry, but-"

„YOU WILL TRY AGAIN OR I WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD.“ Thranduil tore the bowl out of Erellont‘s hand and smashed it against the wall. Green slime splattered his robes, clung to his hair and some landed in Erellont‘s face. Thranduil pinched his nose and took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. „I suggest you stop trying my patience.“ 

„I swear to you, mylord. On my life and that of those I hold dear, I have tried again and again, but this is beyond my skill.“ 

„Find another solution then. Be creative hm?“ Thranduil bared his teeth, his good hand hovering over the grip of the dagger he kept tied to his waist. Just in case. Erellont‘s eyes glittered in the half-dark of the torchlight, flickering ever so often to the workshop door. „Ride to Imladris if you must. But if you return without the medicine, my wrath will be upon you.“ Elleront gulped audibly.

“I will, of course, do my very best.”

“Elbereth knows what I will do if you disappoint me.” And he left again, as swiftly as he had descended upon Elleront, and prayed to everyone who would listen that this was his way out. 

XI.

The days of Erellont‘s absence were spent either in a drunken haze - there had been little wine left in the cellars to begin with and it was quickly dwindling, despite the fact that the taste made Thranduil gag- stumbling about the palace, or semi-sober with Legolas. They played or read together. On especially good days, Thranduil would even venture out of the palace and watch his son practice archery, giving always the same excuse as to why he couldn‘t participate. 

„I‘m still not recovered from the war,“ he‘d say and settle on a wooden bench at the side of the meadow where they‘d set up their private little practice field. With much sweat and tears, Thranduil had carved the likeness of some orcs into the trees for Legolas to defeat in heroic battle. It had taken him an entire week, sometimes crawling on the ground just to keep going, but it had been at once something to focus on and too fine a self-torture to pass up. It was his own blood that decorated the orcs’ ugly faces, war paint of twisted words in a tongue Thranduil might not ever be able to forget. When the labor was done, his nails were broken off and a dark half-moon hugged his good eye. It should have been a simple thing really. It was agonizing, but worth it once he could show his work to Legolas.

“They look so real,” Legolas squealed, delighted by the ugly snarls and weapons made from twigs. 

“You’ve never seen a real orc, love.”

“Well, now I have.”

The time spent with the boy had its merits though. For one thing, Thranduil finally mastered the art of speaking again and whenever he slurred a word or spit when talking he blamed it on fatigue. Much as Thranduil had done in the beginning, Legolas kept asking after Oropher and Thranduil’s explanations got lengthy and fantastical. Legolas understood perfectly well that Amathien was beyond their reach, but he couldn‘t fathom that so was his grandfather. 

For another thing, Legolas was the only one left with the power to conjure a smile onto Thranduil‘s face. It happened rarely and not without much silliness on the boy‘s part, but it triggered a sort of rush in Thranduil‘s chest similar to what Elrond’s medicine had. Merely an echo of what he yearned for, but enough for him to come back for more. It was, all in all, a mutually beneficial arrangement. 

They were lounging by the side of a forest pond one afternoon, a feeble thing, half frozen, but Legolas had insisted, launching little boats they had folded out of leaves – Legolas had done the folding as Thranduil’s hands had trembled too badly too do more than sit and watch – when Elleront burst into the clearing. Sweat gleamed on his brow and his brown hair was braided in a style suited to hard riding, pinned tightly at the back of his head. He bowed as his eyes fell upon Thranduil who was propped up against a tree, a goblet full of red by his side and Legolas on his lap. The boy was busy constructing a ship that wouldn’t sink within a few moments of being released upon the world. 

“Elleront,” Thranduil said smoothly and ran his fingers through his son’s hair, savoring the silky sensation against his skin. “Has your quest been successful?”

“No. And yes.” 

“Which one is it?” 

“I should like to explain in detail, but what I have to relate is not suited for Prince Legolas’ ears.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow and looked at his son who was too deeply concentrated to take note of Elleront. His tongue stuck out between his teeth. But this picture of innocent youth could easily shatter and Legolas had always been a curious one. He pushed the boy off his legs with unsteady hands. Legolas yelped and tumbled to the hard ground, landing flat on his butt.

“Ouch. What was that for?”

“I have business to attend to,” Thranduil said hastily, words merging together. He got to his knees, legs numb from the boy’s weight and pulled Legolas up. “Go inside. I’ll see you for dinner.” Which was a promise as empty as the winter sky. 

“But we aren’t done yet.”

“Yes, we are.” He gave Legolas another rough push into the direction of the palace which earned him an annoyed huff and a stuck-out tongue. 

“You’re no fun today,” Legolas muttered and walked away.

“So?” Thranduil got to his feet and gestured for Elleront to go ahead with his explanations. 

“Follow me, mylord,” Elleront said. They set off in the same direction Legolas had disappeared to, passing through between naked trees and dark walls in silence until the door of Elleront’s cluttered workshop had clicked shut behind them. Then, Thranduil grabbed Elleront by the throat and with what little strength he could muster, slammed him into the wooden door which creaked in protest. 

“Tell me,” he hissed. 

“Mylord,” Elleront said, squeaking a little. “I have found a solution for you, just not the one you were anticipating.”

“Speak clearly.” 

With little breath, Elleront related the tale of his journey, how he had found Imladris devoid of most of its inhabitants still and had been pointed back towards Lothlorien. So, Elleront had ridden there in the hopes of finding answers, but the borders had been barred against anyone entering.

“Friend or foe, they would not let a single soul pass into their realm,” he gasped and Thranduil loosened his grip a little.

“What happened then?” An in an impulse of impatience he cast the other elf aside and paced the room, feeling a little life return to his legs. 

“Then I remembered that Haradon – may he rest peacefully – used to get supplies from the dwarfs that live in Khazad-dûm. So, I went there and though most of them spat angry curses at me, there was one who was willing to lead me to a dealer in highly potent herbs and plants. Mylord must understand that this business was highly illegal, but with your orders in mind it seemed the only possibility.” Elleront paused and ducked a little. 

“You mean to tell me that you have come back here with illegal and, worse, dwarven medicine?”

“No sir. I purchased some mushrooms from that dwarf and he told me they would have a most soothing and pain-quelling effect if treated correctly. Bearing that in mind I also purchased a recipe. Brewed and tested the medicine myself, of course,” Elleront said and pointed at the wooden table which was laden with all sorts of herbs, knives and vials. On the corner, space had been cleared and eleven thin glass vessels perched near the edge, filled with a purple liquid. 

“You tested it?” Thranduil eyed the vials and stepped closer. He sniffed but no apparent smell came from the stuff. Not that his sense of smell was particularly reliable these days.  
“Yes. I’m confident mylord will be pleased with the effects.”

“Have them brought up to my room. And make more, those will hardly last me through the next week.”

“Sir, I would advise against using more than one vial per week. I’m not yet sure of the long-term effects, you see, and while a pain-killing effect is definitely there, taking more than necessary might seriously limit your sensory abilities and skills of judgement.” Elleront bowed his head quickly.

“Have them brought up to my room,” Thranduil repeated and pulled the cowering elf away from the door. “And pray don’t bother me again until I call for you.” 

Thranduil took the long way up to his chambers, through dimly lit corridors and sleeping quarters that were yawning empty at this time of day. On the occasion he met another elf, he brushed past them without word. Imitating an air of urgency and anger became more and more difficult as his leg decided to be uncooperative and by the time he had climbed the last set of stairs around the trunk of the thick tree that had held up their living quarters ever since Thranduil could remember, he was half-dragging his burnt leg along. 

His room was chilled with the curtains thrown open. He hadn’t had a fire lit in there for days now, flinched every time he saw flame and the cold had started to seep into every corner of his room. His sheets were icy against his skin when he slipped into them at night and the water by his bedside numbed his lips. Thranduil removed his coat and hung it over the mirror so that when the glamour fell, like it was bound to after a certain period of time, it never held up for more than a few hours, he wouldn’t have to witness it. Instantly, another wave of cold washed over him and he shivered, approaching his desk where the vials were already lined up. He briefly thought about the risk of drinking the medicine without knowing what it contained or how it would affect him. His ache for something to make him feel better, to extinguish the pain without causing even more, his thirst for elevation and lightness was too big though. Besides, there was nothing left for him to lose, nothing but Legolas who might be better off without a father anyway.

Thranduil pulled the cork out of the first vial and drank the whole thing before laying down on his bed, an acceptable place to die. It tasted weirdly of oranges and cinnamon and Thranduil was reminded of long winter nights in Doriath, endless mugs of steaming tea, Oropher teaching him to write and his mother singing, always singing. Thranduil hummed as his whole body heated up. Not in a being-consumed-by-dragon’s-rage kind of way, but in a taking-a-hot-bath-after-a-whole-day-of-war-councils kind of way. He smiled, wider than he had in years, and his face would have hurt, but this stuff was made of miracles and he was living for it. I could finally be king, he thought and then, I could be king of the whole stupid world. All it took was one small vial filled with magic mushroom juice. Oh, but Thranduil hated mushrooms, they disgusted him. At least they were liquid.  
“Naneth,” he said to the air around him and laughed. “Sing me another song.” She laughed and the bed dipped as she sat down next to him and placed a gentle kiss on his brow. When she sang, Thranduil drank up the notes and the words like they were air and it was all he needed. She sang her little heart out and then disappeared with laughter like the bells of Gondolin, chiming in awe of Manwe’s winds. 

Other people came and went, Amathien whispering professions of love into his ear, than smacking him across the face for taking them seriously. Haradon, pressing a cool cloth against his forehead to combat the fever he was experiencing. Lúthien, beckoning him to dance one last time before they had to part forever. And Oropher recounting the first days of the Eldar to him, a story that was always sure to calm him down. In the end, Thranduil didn’t know for how many hours he lay there, staring at the ceiling until his eye was painfully dry and his throat felt as though he had swallowed sand. Those were minor inconveniences though. All in all, Thranduil felt greatly improved and he imagined himself floating on the Outer Sea, drifting to some unknown place where nothing had to matter. 

XII.

That night Thranduil did not sleep. Against sanity (which he had forfeit) and Elleront‘s advice (which he rarely heeded under any circumstance) he downed the second vial as soon as he felt the effects of the first waning. As the memory of Oropher, crushed and mangled started to manifest again, as his heart began to crack open once more, Thranduil heaved himself over to his desk on top of which stood his potions, neat and in order. They reminded him of soldiers and that was the last sign he needed more. He didn’t even stop to taste or breathe, merely gulped down as much of it as he could before his lungs protested and he collapsed to the ground, empty flask still clutched in his fingers and heaved. 

The uncomfortable feeling of his skin, like wearing clothes several inches to small, gradually faded and Thranduil let out a last sigh of relief. His room blurred before his eyes and all his thoughts merged into a low, soothing buzz of which he could discern nothing. 

Everything was fine. And then he heard a noise, wails like gulls over the open sea. 

Finally, he thought and closed his eyes, slumping against the side of his desk, finally you call for me and I will listen. Thranduil smiled and focused on the pleasant warmth that sprouted in the middle of his chest and grew outwards until his whole body was wrapped in vines of comfort and calm. The cries continued and Thranduil answered their song with on if his own, an old lullaby his aunt used to sing to him in those days when the elves had still been one people, searching for a place to call their own.  
A verse into it, Thranduil’s tongue twisted and obliterated the words and that was when he realized that he wasn’t hearing birds and that the cries were decidedly more elfin and distraught than he would have liked. Worse yet, they were familiar. 

“Legolas,” he gasped and panic like a weed killed the warm feeling, grasped his heart and squeezed hard, unwanted tangles sucking the life out of him. Thranduil pushed himself up and his hand slipped on the carpet. With a helpless yelp he fell and hit his nose on the side of his chair. There was a definite crunching noise and then he felt blood spilling over his lips, but he paid no attention. Legolas had taken over all capacity of his conscious mind and a feral instinct to protect his son drove Thranduil up. A lifetime passed, the world waning this way and that, before Thranduil got to his feet and still the cries could be heard. Why was no one helping Legolas? He wiped at his face, his hands coming away almost black in the faint moonlight. 

“Don’t worry,” Thranduil said and made his way to the door, dodging vertigo and furniture alike. “I’m coming for you.” 

It was a lucky circumstance that Legolas’ room was only two doors from Thranduil’s own. Although his determination consumed him with a fierce fire, he was distantly aware that stairs might have spelled his defeat. 

Without knocking, he barged into his son’s room. A fire still crackled loudly in the fireplace to the right and Legolas sat in his bed, crying into his hands, his whole body shaking. A single tear ran down Thranduil’s cheek at the sight. He cocked his head to the side and smiled. 

“My sweet boy,” he drawled and Legolas quieted, peeking between his fingers. “The nightmares again?” 

Legolas eyes widened and he let out an ear-splitting scream. 

“You can be at ease now, I’m here.” 

“Who are you?” 

“It’s me. Your ada.” 

“You’re lying,” Legolas sobbed, and he fumbled around under his pillow. “Go away.” 

Thranduil glanced sideways at a mirror that was propped on top of the boy’s dresser. His face was unchanged, half a desolation of tendrils and muscle, half fair as the world of old. His nose leaned to the side in an angle that looked so funny he had to laugh, exposing teeth dyed crimson in the firelight. What was a little blood and injury, though. He was still himself. 

“I’m scared.” A whimper came from the boy and then Thranduil couldn’t be parted from him any longer. 

“Legolas.” He lunged forward, tripping over some wooden toy. He half-sat, half-lay on his son’s bed who had backed into the corner, holding something long and gleaming against his chest. “It’s me. I want to help you.” 

“You’re not my father,” Legolas sobbed. “Ada is pretty and elegant. Ada doesn’t bleed, he’s invincible. You are a monster.” 

„No please. I‘m sick, love. But I can still be your father.“ His words flew, wet and red, speckling Legolas’ face. Thranduil reached out his wasted hand and stroked Legolas‘ cheek. His small body curled in even tighter on itself and he whimpered at the touch, closing his eyes. 

„Don‘t touch me,“ Legolas moaned, big fat tears spilling over Thranduil‘s hand, mingling with the blood he had wiped from his nose. „Please go away.“ 

„It‘s me.“ Thranduil smiled widely. „You used to say I was your best friend, remember?” 

„Nooo.“ The scream tore through the air, tore at Thranduil‘s eardrums. He remembered how Legolas was after a bad dream, he needed comfort and someone close to him, to hold him until the horror passed. Nodding to himself, Thranduil reached out and drew the boy into his arms, he was wound up and sniffling.

„You‘re not him, you‘re not him, you‘re not him.“ 

„Calm down, little leaf. I‘m with you now. No one can hurt you anymore.“ He smiled and kissed the top of his son‘s head like he had a million times before. Legolas went even stiffer and Thranduil in turn tightened his grip. 

“Die,” Legolas whispered and he drew his small arm back as far as possible and then plunged his fist into Thranduil’s middle. The short time Thranduil was paralyzed in surprise was enough for Legolas to wind out of his arms and scramble away from him, eyes frantically searching the room.

Thranduil looked down at the thin dagger that protruded from his stomach. With a grunt he pulled it out and threw it across the room. It rebounded off the wall and landed in a heap of cushions under Legolas’ window, splattering blood everywhere. The pain came a few seconds later and he groaned, his body folding in the middle. 

„DIE,“ Legolas screeched and pushed Thranduil off his bed. He hadn‘t the strength to fight his son‘s hands, small but forceful. Legolas might have a soft heart, but he was anything but weak. Thranduil curled in on himself, giggling madly. He looked up at Legolas who cowered on his bed, heaving and gasping for air. The well of his tears still hadn‘t dried up and he pressed his hands against his eyes. It was amazing how much a child could cry and go on and on about nonsense like this. 

„Legolas, stop crying. Can‘t you see it‘s alright?“ Thranduil pressed a hand to his stomach where his nightgown was stained red and it came away shiny in the moonlight. „I‘ll be fine.“ 

„Why are you still alive? Why did you come back for me?“ Legolas sobbed these words drawing his blankets about himself and turned to the wall, his small frame trembling. „I wish, I wish you had died too.“ 

Thranduil clawed himself up, using Legolas‘ dresser for leverage. He leaned over his son and placed a warm kiss on his cheek, interpreting the resulting shiver as a reaction of comfort. 

„So do I,“ he hissed into Legolas‘ ear and turned away, clutching his stomach with his wasted hand. 

Thranduil all but stumbled out of Legolas‘ bedroom, down a few steps towards where he thought Tauriel might be before he collapsed. The world spun a little longer and then he fell into darkness.

XIII.

For seven days and seven nights, Thranduil lay in his bed recovering from the wound to his stomach and a broken nose on top of everything else. Elleront told him he was fortunate, that it hadn‘t pierced vital organs and that he was lucky Legolas was still young and hadn‘t yet grown into his strength. Thranduil knew Legolas could pack a punch, could have very well killed him if he hadn‘t trembled so badly. He only lived because he had transformed into the big bad monster hiding under Legolas‘ bed. 

By all the Valar and their holy lands, he thought as he stared listlessly at the ceiling, reproaching himself for the millionth time, you have really outdone yourself. It was fitting somehow, that in his misery he ruined the one good thing that was left in his life. As if he had become addicted to pain, addicted to reasons for more self-poisoning and deceit. And even as these thoughts clouded his mind, he turned his attention to the vials, still lined up neatly and beckoning him. This pain, they said, it doesn‘t have to last. There is a simple solution to all your problems and we can give it to you. Just one last sip. How bad can it be, really? Elleront is a man of his trade, he wouldn’t have given you this potion if it wasn‘t safe. And so on. 

Thranduil spent entire hours like that, his nerve ends prickling but his muscles unwilling to work with him. He slept in uneasy fits, sweating and winding on his bed. He awoke covered in vomit one morning and then again a few hours later, all cleaned up. Time passed in fragments of anger and tears, self-hatred and all throughout it the craving got worse and worse until he begged no one in particular for just one more sip. Either there was no one to listen or no one who wanted to. And so the cycle repeated and more than once. And as he wondered how his life had turned into subsequent spirals of sorrow and decay, Thranduil felt under his pillow for the dagger he‘d placed there years ago. He stroked the handle, let his fingers glide along the sharp edge and nicked his skin more than once, but he never drew it out. 

Tauriel came calling on the eight day, dark circles under her eyes and a weary hunch to her stature. Her tunic was unusually rumpled and the first thing she did was rip open the velvet curtains. At once, light and air streamed into the room, forms of nourishment that were normally reserved for those alive and deserving of them. 

„It stinks in here,“ she said and dragged Amathien‘s chair over to Thranduil‘s bedside. „You stink. Worse than a bloody warg.“ 

„Thanks.“ 

„Here.“ Tauriel picked up a pitcher with water someone had left on his nightstand and held it to his lips. 

„No. Save it for something more important.“ 

„You disgust me,“ Tauriel said and emptied the whole thing over Thranduil‘s head. „I‘m over this whole play. You‘ve had time, Thranduil. More time than anyone else and honestly more than you can spare. This has to end.” 

As Thranduil wiped his face, Tauriel got up and picked up the vials from the table at the other end of the room. “This too.” And she hauled them out of the window, one by one.  
“What are you doing?” 

“I’m doing you a favor. Most pathetic king to ever hold a title,” Tauriel muttered darkly and sank bank into the chair. 

“Have you only come here to insult me? Because there is no need. I’ve become quite profound at this art myself.” 

They stared each other for a long-drawn breath and Thranduil tried not to shiver as the winter wind bit at his wet skin. He also tried not to enjoy the pain. Then, Tauriel shook her head. 

„Legolas?” Thranduil hoped without hope. 

“Scared out of his wits. Won’t sleep, won’t eat. I’ve tried everything.” 

“Can I see him?” He asked, knowing he asked in vain. In his state he destroyed both Legolas’ trust and affection for him. It didn’t matter that his intentions were to comfort. He was a monster and that was the simple truth. 

“He won’t come even near your door. I’ve explained to him what happened, but he claims his father is dead and has been replaced by some foul creature of the north.” 

“No.” 

“You really messed him up, Thranduil.” 

“I’m sorry,” he moaned, tears spilling from his good eye. “I’m so sorry for everything.” 

„I know. Give him some time. He might come around.“ Give or take a few thousand years. Thranduil wasn’t sure he would be able to make it that far, stay a person long enough to have a chance of happiness again. Hadn’t his grief been enough? Could the Valar not grant him relief? He’d heard of people fading away from smaller a loss so why was he still here, fighting to keep from ending it himself when they had been taken to a better place. It was more than unfair. On top of all that happened they still wanted him to carry on and be king. The least thing he needed for that was a face though. 

„Can you...“ 

„I can still cast the glamour. But I have one condition.“ 

„Anything.“ 

„You stop hiding. You let me in and we‘ll get you up on your feet again. No more wine, no more shady mushroom potions, yes Elleront told me. Well, I threatened him and I’m far scarier than you are. You‘ll be a king.“ 

„I cannot.“ 

„It‘s your choice, Thranduil.“ Tauriel got up and pulled the blanket over his exposed chest. She smoothed a bit of hair back that stuck to his damp forehead. Then she walked away. „You can stay in this room and waste away or you can get up and live again. You know where to find me.“ 

Then she was gone again and Thranduil felt strangely empty. If he didn‘t have Legolas he had no one. But if he had no one than there was no one left to lose. That thought was strangely comforting. 

I didn‘t raise you to be a fool, his father‘s voice came into his mind from a distant memory of that time Thranduil had lead an assault onto Angband head-first into a trap. I raised you to be strong and clever. 

„And I‘m neither,“ Thranduil muttered. He turned over and drew the blanket up against his cheek. Again, he prayed to Elbereth for mercy and again, she didn‘t listen.


End file.
